#But this is about yesno. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

separatist-apologist · 1 year ago

Text

A Lost Princess of Sunlight

Summary: Lady Elain has spent her life in the idyllic countryside wanting for nothing, so when her adopted sister Vassa begs her to accompany her to court, how can Elain say no? The roguish prince is in need of a wife and Elain, certain she'd make a terrible princess, has no interest in such theatrics.

But something about the palace brings back memories lost to the sea ten years before. Memories Elain had been certain she'd never get back…memories that speak of a colder place, and sisters long forgotten. Amid the tumultuous politics and the looming war, Elain finds herself embroiled in a mystery to find out who she really is.

And where she really comes from.

My humble offering to @writtenonreceipts for the @acotargiftexchange. Am I releasing fewer chapters because I've realized I need more than 7? YesNO STOP ASKING

Thank you again to @velidewrites for the moodboard and making me seem more put together than I am.

Read On AO3 | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

Elain woke to the sound of something clattering against her bedroom window. Looking up from beneath her blanket, nothing seemed amiss. She was alone, the curtains flung open so the first rays of sunlight would wake her. That was better than servants flooding in, giggling amongst themselves and talking just a shade too loud for her to sleep through. Elain had learned the hard way that most of the working staff did not appreciate being ordered about by people they didn’t know and she hated upsetting people.

So she bathed and dressed herself before they ever arrived, perching herself in a chair by the window so when they arrived, they could set her breakfast down and fuss over her hair before swanning back out. It took all of thirty minutes.

It was silly to not want people she’d never see again to like her and yet Elain did.

Pressing her cheek back against the satin pillow, Elain was half asleep again when that clacking sound returned to her window. It was a rock, she realized. Someone was throwing rocks at her window. Or birds—that was possible, though it seemed unlikely.

Scrambling up, Elain wrapped a robe around her night dress and pulled open the balcony door to peer out into the silvery darkness. She ought to have known, because Prince Lucien was standing in the garden, grinning up when he saw her.

“I was starting to think I had the wrong room,” he whisper-shouted. “Come down.”

“I’m not dressed,” Elain complained, taking in his own casual demeanor. Gone were the jackets, the boots, the pants—replaced by a long piece of white fabric draped across his frame. There was a lot of skin on display, a warning Vassa had given her before they’d ever left.

That was the style in the capitol which made sense once she experienced the soupy heat.

So why was her heart racing? “I’m not dressed,” Elain heard herself saying.

Lucien’s grin was visible even in the dark. “So get dressed. I’ll wait.”

“Is that an order, your majesty?”

Lucien slapped a large hand over his chest, staggering backward as though she’d shot an arrow through him. “You wound me,” he cried dramatically. “It’s a request. I want to show you something.”

“So long as you swear to behave yourself.”

“I will be an absolute gentleman,” he swore, grinning once more. “Now come. Hurry.”

Elain turned, dressing quickly just like he’d asked in a breezy green gown. There was no one to help with her hair and cool enough she didn’t feel like she needed to pull the thick curls off her neck, besides. Lucien’s hair had been down, the wind blowing it against his cheek and she thought it might be nice for them both to just be as they were.

It was foolish, but Elain was growing to like the prince. It wasn’t romance—not entirely, anyway. But it was comfortable. Friendship, almost. She felt like she could tell him her thoughts without worrying he’d judge her for them. Besides, ever since Elain had told him about her desire to find out where she’d come from, Lucien had been right there with her. He knew Arina better than Elain did, teasing her for the slowness with which she worked.

Elain had always had Vassa—but no other friends. Acquaintances, certainly, whose company she enjoyed and who enjoyed hers, but not actual friends the way she wished. Now, though, she felt like maybe she could have friends. A whole life stretched before her if she wanted it.

Strange, to think that maybe she did.

Unlike Lucien, who was already outside, Elain had to sneak out the usual way. She was positive someone must have seen her, even if it was just an errant guard or a servant finishing up for the evening. It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine, she chanted in her head, but embarrassment had wormed its way into her chest.

She didn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea about her.

And she was going to meet the prince alone tonight. There was no one else with him when she found him in the garden, a little leather pouch held in one hand. “I won’t keep you,” he promised, eyes bright when he took her in. “You look…wow. Nice, I mean. Really nice.”

“Where are we going?” she whispered as he reached for her wrist and began tugging her further through the garden.

“Somewhere I hope impresses you,” Lucien admitted with a sly smile. “I promise I will be nothing but a gentleman. My mother would kill me to hear otherwise.”

“Some would argue waking a lady in the dead of night is ungentleman-like behavior.”

“You’ve got me there,” Lucien smiled wider. “I confess, I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

Elain was suddenly grateful for the night sky overhead given it obscured the flush she knew was creeping over her cheeks.

“How will you manage to get anything done while I’m here?” she teased, bumping him gently with her shoulder.

“I have been asking myself the same question. Can I tell you a secret?”

“You may.”

Lucien ducked his head, clearly embarrassed by whatever was about to leave his lips. “When mother first told me of her plans, I insisted it was a bad idea. That there was no lady of interest to me. And I suppose this is the gods way of humbling me for my unchecked hubris.”

Elain’s heart thudded in her chest. “You sound awfully certain of yourself. You barely know me, not to mention the others who would love, I’m certain, a secret trip with you.”

He cleared his throat. “And ah…and if I said I didn’t want to get to know them…and only you? How ah…how would you react to that?”

Oh.

“You barely know me,” she whispered, her steps slowing. “You’ll change your mind when you realize how utterly dull I am.”

“I think you’re hoping I’ll change my mind,” Lucien replied, glancing down at her. “But I’m famously stubborn. Once I set my mind to something, there’s no changing it.”

“I would make an awful princess.”

“With that face? The whole kingdom will be in love with you the moment they set eyes on you,” Lucien replied easily, though there was a lingering hesitation to his words. As though he had swallowed some words he wanted to say and knew he shouldn’t.

“Lucien—”

“Just…allow me to court you, Lady Elain. All the things you imagine as inadequacies are quite charming, if you’ll allow me to say so.

You’ll change your mind. It was on the tip of her tongue and the only thing that kept her from saying so was the earnest way he’d caller in so-called inadequacies charming. He liked her. That was a revelation, though perhaps it shouldn’t have been. She just assumed he’d get bored and yet…and yet they continued to walk the neat, stone laid path through the neatly trimmed hedges of the garden. Honeysuckle filled the air, warm and comfortable now that the sun had finally set. Elain’s fingers brushed against tall stalks of lavender, her other wrist still held gently by Lucien’s callused fingers.

“Here,” he murmured, fingers lacing her own as though she needed the help stepping up onto the little dock overlooking a rather large pond. She’d seen it already, though never at night.

During the day there was nothing special about it. Merely crystalline water and bright fish zipping about which was hardly worth noting. Some ladies had sat on the granite benches, fanning themselves from the heat but no one paid any mind to the water.

And what a shame they didn’t. Elain gasped at the bioluminescent purples, blues, and greens now flitting beneath the water.

“Watch,” Lucien whispered, eyes darting from her to the fish pond. Reaching into his little satchel, he tossed bread into the water. It was a frenzy of rushing water, bubbles, and color all at once.

“Can I?” she asked when the chaos subsided just enough, though the majority of the fish now hovered toward the top like shooting stars, hoping to catch a little treat.

Lucien handed her the little pouch rather than making her reach over his body to get it. She would have…might have let her fingers brush his exposed chest just to see if it was as hard as it looked. She’d never been so close to a man before. They weren’t allowed near her or Vassa on the country estate and knew a stable hand had once been quite taken with Vassa, going so far as to sneak into the house to see her.

Elain never did find out what happened to him.

She squealed with delight when it was her turn to toss the crumbly bread only to re-begin the frenzied feeding. Lucien inched just a little closer and was he smelling her hair? When she looked up at him, he, in turn, was gazing upward at the stars though she swore there was color decorating his cheeks.

“What happened to you?” she asked, giving in to impulse, though only to touch his cheek. The trio of scars carved down the half of his face was brutal—she supposed he was lucky he hadn’t lost his eye, too.

“When I was a boy, my father invaded a kingdom and some of his men killed a princess,” Lucien began, reaching for her own face to hold it gently in his hand. “The other two lived here for a time. I wasn’t supposed to speak to them…but I did. And the youngest sister held me down while the older one tried to carve out my eye. Said it was only fair since my family was responsible for her death.”

“That’s horrible,” Elain whispered, unable to take her gaze off him.

Lucien shrugged. “They only damaged it a little—I’m half blind in this eye, though I suppose one day I might be fully blind. One day, though, when father dies, I hope to go back to the north bearing the scars and see if we can’t end what our families began.”

“It really doesn’t bother you?” Elain questioned. Lucien swept his thumb over her cheek.

“I suppose it wounds my vanity at times. I’m forever looking for a woman who doesn’t immediately stare at them with horror, trying to figure out if they’re something that can be genetically passed down to future children…or if she’d have to grit her teeth and bear the sight of me.”

“No one thinks that,” Elain insisted. Lucien was so beautiful that the scars hardly diminished it. If anything, they made him lovelier still, branding him a warrior even if the truth behind them was hardly heroic. Before knowing, Elain assumed it must have happened during battle which made him seem fearsome. Brave.

“I assure you they do,” he murmured, his voice strangely husky. “They lament the loss of my good looks and whisper to their friends about it as though the gossip never reaches my ears. I hear it, though.”

“I like it,” Elain declared truthfully. “It adds character.”

He smiled softly. “I believe that you do, Lady Elain.”

Lucien lowered his face, inching closer and closer until her hand flew to his chest, fingertips pressing into his skin and oh. He was warmer and softer than she’d imagined. “What are you doing?” she whispered.

“I’m going to kiss you,” Lucien replied, eyes searching her own. “Unless you’d prefer I didn’t?”

She’d always wondered what her first kiss would be like. Here, beneath a canopy of stars and illuminated by brightly colored fish you could only fully see at night, Elain thought this might be the most romantic evening of her life. She couldn’t speak, lifting her chin to nod just once.

Lucien’s relief was palpable. Had she said no, would he have left? Abandoned his pursuit of her entirely?

She’d never know. Lucien’s lips brushed her own tentatively, as though allowing her one final out. Elain didn’t move, still looking up at him while waiting to see what he’d do next. But she wanted this bad enough to set her teeth on edge.

Her eyes fluttered shut when his mouth pressed firm against her own. Elain couldn’t explain why, when looking at him was its own kind of pleasure. She needed to feel the moment and somehow that was better done with her eyes closed.

His mouth was soft—sweet, like amber and honey and something dark and well-spiced. It ought to have been one polite, chaste kiss. Elain suspected that had been Lucien’s original intention when he’d begun. Something sweet enough to convey his very serious interest without taking it too far.

She was the problem right then because it was her fingers that curled into his chest and her feet that stepped closer, surging upward on her tiptoes so she could kiss him again. And Lucien responded, his arm winding around her waist to hold her steady, his hand caressing her cheek. It was just, kissing him felt good, and Elain didn’t want to stop.

Now she understood how ladies were compromised. She’d always figured it was men taking advantage but if someone caught them, Elain wouldn’t be able to pretend she hadn’t wanted what Lucien was offering. And to be fair, all he was doing was kissing her. There was an edge to it—a want that was slowly starting to burn through her.

It would consume her if she didn’t stop. Elain didn’t want to stop and neither did Lucien, the two locked in their embrace, his lips all but frantic against her own. His tongue teased the seam of her lip and when she opened with a gasp, Lucien tasted her.

Elain nearly fell backward, her stomach exploding with frantic, excited butterflies. His tongue against her own felt good, surprising and overwhelming all at once. She wanted more, wanted to press herself against him and—

Lucien broke away, gasping for air as his fingers flew to his lips. “I—I shouldn’t…I’m sorry.”

Elain blinked. Did he regret it? “For what?” she replied, her voice equally breathless.

“For taking liberties, I…I swear my intentions are pure. I just…”

Lost control. So had she. Elain nodded, swallowing hard. The only disappointment she felt was that it was over and she didn’t know when they’d get another moment like this. “I understand.”

He dared a step closer. “Yes. Yes, I think you do. Come on…I’ll walk you back.”

And this time, when Lucien offered her his hand, Elain took it gladly.

Maybe his attention wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

Eris paced back and forth as the sun rose, already dressed. A letter lay before him, half written to the princess of the north. Eris had begun with the usual pleasantries, the lies about her beauty and his obsession but even his poetry annoyed him. Nesta was lovely, sure, but when he’d begun penning those words, he found himself thinking about golden hair and emerald eyes and fuck Helion for employing a woman that looked like that.

A stupid woman who’d been willing to die over a book. Rising from his chair so quickly it toppled over, Eris wondered what was wrong with her? All the while ignoring that this was just a ruse to see her again rather than look for her around the palace. She was never around. Not at banquets or balls or even just walking through the halls.

Did she ever leave the library? Was she even allowed?

Why do you care?

He didn’t. She was obnoxious…and beautiful. And she wasn’t scared of him, which was a wholly new experience for Eris. All woman were a little scared and awed of him. Arina was merely annoyed. Why? Even here, the ladies regarded him with the same deference they paid his miserable half-brother. He supposed he was a decent consolation prize for any self-respecting woman.

Eris didn’t want a wife. Not from the south, or the north, or his own fucking kingdom. He just wanted vengeance, a thought so all-consuming that until recently, he’d never paid women much attention beyond a night in his bedroom. Eris hadn’t had to court someone—they made their intentions known and he merely barked out some orders.

Get on your knees was the usual, though he could be varied from time to time. No one had ever told him no and certainly never held a knife to his throat. He bet, beneath her flippant attitude, she was just as desperate to please as everyone else. And Eris knew the moment he walked back up there, she’d bow and scrape and all his interest would evaporate.

He could write that liars letter to Nesta Archeron.

So up Eris went, ignoring the soft clatter of dishes and the lilting chatter wafting up from the stairs just below. Fingers skimming the marble, his palms were sticky—from the heat.

And nothing else.

It occurred to him only when he reached the library that Arina was likely to still be in bed. She had that kind of look about her—the same one that he had, he thought ruefully. It was too late to turn back now—he’d already been spotted by two philosophers, arguing over something that had kept them up all night, if the dark circles were anything to go by.

If he turned back now, Arina would know what a coward he was. And Eris was hardly a coward. If she wasn’t there, he could insult her for her lazy ways. Women loved being insulted, right? He could practically feel his mothers displeasure which only soured Eris’s already bad mood. That mood was made worse when he opened the doors and found Arina sitting in a cushioned window seat with a frown on her face.

It wasn’t directed at him. In fact, Eris might have thought she hadn’t noticed him at all if he hadn’t turned to leave offended by the easy beauty radiating off her and she’d said, “Remind me, prince. A decade ago, what kingdom was invaded?”

“This is a strange insult, even for you,” he replied, gently closing the doors behind him, again, for reasons he couldn’t quite ascertain. “It was the Northern kingdom. Why?”

“No Southern? Not even little border villages?” she pressed, still staring down at a frayed piece of parchment in her hands.

“That does sound like the kind of barbarity your king would enjoy,” Eris said, if only to get her full attention. Arina really looked at him, then, as if she was seeing him for the first time and it annoyed her.

“You were privy to the peace talks, were you not?”

“Am I about to teach you about lying?” Eris replied dryly, not bothering to admit he’d been a child when those talks were going on. His father hadn’t allowed him in and everything Eris knew in the aftermath came from the mouths of tutors, and then diplomats. “Why do you care so much?”

“Because…” Arina bit her bottom lip, unaware of how Eris straightened his spine in response. “What are you doing up here?”

Eris blinked. “I came to demand you eat breakfast with me.”

You idiot.

Arina’s lips parted, mouth forming a soft oh. “If this about the other night—”

“It absolutely is about the other night,” Eris hissed, for all the good it did.

“We’re even,” she finished firmly, those eyes flashing. “You’ve done enough and I’m grateful for your intervention.”

“Have you ever killed a man, Arina?” he asked, daring a step toward her. She pulled her knees closer to her chin, still staring him dead in the eye.

“No,” she whispered, as if admitting some heinous sin.

“Could have fooled me,” Eris conceded, still thinking about her knife against his throat. Why did he like that memory? And why was he adding, “Now it’s my responsibility to correct your inadequacies.”

“Your—” she spluttered, setting the parchment to the side. “You have no responsibility to me, breakfast or otherwise!”

“So you won’t eat breakfast with me?” Eris asked, thinking that might be the easier sell. And maybe once he’d softened her up, he’d take her somewhere and—no, banish those thoughts before they unmake you.

Her eyes narrowed. “If I decline, are you going to threaten to tell the King what happened?”

“Yes.”

“You’re a bastard. You know that, right?” she asked through gritted teeth.

“You keep telling me so. It’s becoming humbling,” Eris admitted, his relief palpable. In truth, he had no intention of ever telling Helion anything, let alone about Arina. How the Southern King had found himself in possession of her was one thing. Potentially orchestrating her removal or worse was another.

“I don’t believe anything could humble the likes of you,” she declared, rising from her chair to let the verdant gown her wore tumble to her ankles. Golden chain straps criss-crossed against the golden brown of her skin while her hair remained utterly wild and yet somehow perfect—as if she’d woken up and carefully made curly waves of each individual strand. Maybe he was used to the glassy perfection of the women back home.

Or maybe deep down, Eris was jealous of how little she cared if he found anything desirable about her at all.

“You were going to let yourself die for a book,” he said once she’d set her parchment to her desk.

“He wouldn’t have killed—”

“Yes, Arina. He would have,” Eris replied, his voice colder than he’d intended. “What were you thinking?”

“Why do you care?” was her easy, measured response. Her expression was one of academic curiosity—as if she’d stumbled upon some tangled mystery she hoped to unravel. And that was dangerous given Eris couldn’t find an answer that was dishonest, let alone truthful.

“What a question,” he murmured instead, gesturing toward the door.

She followed without complaint, still looking up at him with interest. He wished she’d return to her open dislike.

“Why are you so interested in the end of the war?” he asked once they were out of her little sunlit office. She was a half-step ahead of him, unaware of how his fingers practically touched her bare spine.

“Just…an off-handed comment about a survivor from the end of the war,” Arina replied, eyes misting over again. “From some unknown border village close to your realm. I’m trying to determine which village was destroyed but there are no records from that time period.”

“As there wouldn’t be. Our territory had agreed to cover a hundred mile radius between Rhodes and the border,” Eris replied, genuinely curious. “It would have been war with Allsfeld.”

“Perhaps they were mistaken,” Arina murmured, though Eris could see there was no doubt on the mistake—she knew she had the location right, which meant whoever had said so was lying.

Or not who they said they were. Eris was curious enough not to press her further, nor did he take her into the banquet hall for everyone to witness. He had a suspicion she would hate being the subject of everyone's attention, especially if it was centered around him.

It was easy enough to arrange a little terrace table and have food brought to him, all with a snap of his fingers and a few harshly barked words. ‘

“You could be nicer,” Arina commented, as if there wasn’t fruit and bread and meat all situated before her.

“I could be a lot of things,” Eris replied without ire. “Tell me more about this mystery village.”

“Why would I bore you with the details?”

“I don’t mind a little boredom.”

Arina sighed, drizzling honey over a piece of bread. “The time must be wrong—perhaps in the chaos, everything has melded together. Or…”

Eris was half grinning. “Or someone is lying. That’s what you think, isn’t it?”

“I could be executed for telling you all this, you know,” she bit back, color warming her cheeks.

“I think I’ve established I have no intention of betraying you,” Eris replied, surprised by how truthful the words were.

Arina opened her mouth, likely moments from insulting him when her eyes snagged on something behind him. Turning, Eris caught a glimpse of Feyre Archeron rounding a corner, arm looped with some courtier he’d never seen before. Just behind the pair was his obnoxious brother and some guard whose name he didn’t know and didn’t care to know.

Eris shook his head. No, that wasn’t Feyre Archeron. Feyre Archeron was all sharp angles and scowls and this woman bore a strange sort of softness. She was far prettier than the younger Archeron and yet the resemblance…Eris couldn’t take his eyes off her. That was Nesta and Feyre’s hair, their features, their stature. He knew the shape of that face, the fairness, the shade of golden brown hair.

He blinked and they were gone, vanishing down the open hall before he could truly assess whether he was right. Shaking his head, Eris turned back to his meal to find Arina watching him with mild interest. “Have you spoken to him?” she asked, misunderstanding what had caught him off guard.

That was an Archeron—he was certain of it. An Archeron dressed in Southern fashion but an Archeron none the less. Eris wasn’t the sort to find his guilt manifesting as beautiful women—and he didn’t feel guilty for ignoring Nesta, either. He knew she was entertaining Rhysand as they spoke and if she found him more agreeable, she’d honor nothing for their handshake.

Eris was hardly a romantic.

“Is this the part where I bare my soul to you?” Eris asked, his temper rising to the surface. Did she truly think he was about to tell her anything about his family?

Arina shrugged, a gleam to her gaze he swore hadn’t been there before. Her lips curved with a triumphant smile he couldn’t make heads or tails of. What was she so pleased about?

“Did no one teach you how to woo a woman, Eris Vanserra?”

“Woo—” he spluttered, well aware his face was burning red.

“Isn’t that what you’re doing? Courting me?”

Was he? Eris hadn’t thought about it, but now that he sat there, staring at her, he let himself imagine another man chasing after her. Fury replaced embarrassment. Well. That was damning, he supposed.

So, like an absolute idiot, he heard himself ask, “What if I was?”

“You’re off to a bad start,” she said, ducking her head as she reached for a goblet of juice. “Though, I suppose the sunrise breakfast is a nice touch.”

As if he’d planned that out. What could it hurt, Eris reasoned as he stared her down. Inevitably, she’d do something that irritated him, thus severing the attraction he felt and he’d be free of her. And of everyone in this place, she was the most tolerable. The most knowledgeable, too. She could help him navigate the court of vipers that he found himself in, and if he was careful, might even divulge something she shouldn’t.

There were no downsides.

“Then yes. I suppose I am.”

There was that smile again. Eris couldn’t make sense of it, though he turned it over in his mind long after she’d departed with nothing more than a kiss he pressed to the back of her hand as he inhaled the sweet scent of vanilla and coconut. It was the look of a woman making a fool of a man.

It took Eris the entirety of his day, until he was practically undressing, for the realization to come crashing over him.

Clever woman.

He found her just outside the library, clearly about to turn in for the evening. She saw him coming, shirt unbuttoned at the collar and his hair a little wild. “You,” he hissed when he saw her.

Arina grinned. “Oh, prince. I missed you, too.”

“You’re playing games with me,” he accused, earning a pretty laugh. She came to him, ignoring his crossed arms and his scowl. And when she leaned up on tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek, Eris turned his head impulsively, capturing her lips instead.

He’d meant to knock her off balance—to even the score between them. After all, she didn’t look as if she kissed very many men and Eris had it on good authority that he was very good at kissing. It hadn’t occurred to Eris, in the split second he decided, that he might like kissing her.

She didn’t do anything in half measures, he’d give her that. Rather than pulling away with a lady’s outrage—or slapping him, which aroused him more than he was willing to admit—Arina kissed him back.

Tentative, at first, eyes wide open to look at him. Is this what we’re doing? Those eyes of hers seemed to demand.

Eris yanked her closer.

Yes, he decided because gods above, she tasted sweet. Her lips parted, allowing him to indulge which was a mistake he couldn’t rectify. It was Eris who groaned, taking a step backward to try and push her against a wall. He wanted more of her, against reason or common sense. He barely knew her.

But he wanted her.

What would Helion trade, he wondered?

His court would assassinate him if he brought home a foreign wife.

He didn’t care. This wasn’t about marriage, besides.

It was Arina who pushed him back, lips swollen and out of breath. “What games am I playing?” she half whispered, looking as off-balanced as she had the night he’d rescued her from death.

Eris had forgotten why he’d come. “You…kiss me again,” he ordered, reaching for her face. Arina ducked deftly, just narrowly avoiding him. “What games am I playing, Eris?”

“The one where you refuse to kiss me again,” he snarled with frustration. “You know.”

“I know a lot of things. Be more specific and I’ll entertain the thought of kissing you again.”

Growling softly, he whispered. “About the princess.”

Arina’s eyes brightened. “I didn’t know. Not for sure—not until just now.”

“This could start a war if the North learned,” he breathed, advancing on her. Eris didn’t give a fuck about Nesta Archeron anymore—and he didn’t care about his own vengeance, either. He only cared about the woman in front of him and all the things he could do to her before the sun rose again. He’d worry about this revelation in the morning.

“They won’t,” she whispered, letting him wind an arm around her waist. “You’re going to keep this between the two of us for now.”

“Or what?”

She inclined her head. “No threats, Eris. You’ll keep this secret because I asked you to.”

And he knew, deep down, that she was right.

Another day without a letter from the unreliable bastard known as Eris Vanserra. Why had she thought seeking his aid was a good idea, anyway? He was likely too busy cavorting with Southern whores to be of any use to Nesta, who didn’t want such a well-used husband, besides. Not one who had that sort of reputation, at any rate.

Which made Rhysand a bad option, too. The problem with rejecting the King of Velaris was it left only one good, viable candidate— Graysen Nolan. And Nesta would be damned if she married a Nolan. Bigoted and frankly, a little stupid, Nolan was everyone’s choice for king except hers. This was supposed to be the only alternative path. Graysen was merely a nobleman’s son—Rhysand and Eris were kings, or they would be one day. They came with military might, with land, and all the richest their kingdoms commanded. Graysen could hardly compete.

Sighing, Nesta plopped onto a bench out in the courtyard, staring upward at a moody sky. Now Eris was gone and Rhysand wouldn’t stop staring at Feyre long enough to even pretend he had a passing interest in her.

Nesta could arrange Feyre’s marriage—if she hated her sister, which she didn’t—to Rhysand. And in turn, he’d get to whisk her away to the mountains, subjected to his whims which Nesta didn’t think would be cruel, but would certainly be perverted.

And having spent the last week getting to know him, she loathed the thought of making him happy.

Nesta was floundering, her whole life hinging on the decisions of men. It was unfair that she could be better than all of them, the first born of her family and heir apparent, and still be required to get married simply to access the inheritance the rest of them got merely by existing.

“I’m tired of men,” Nesta announced to the wet footsteps just behind her.

“All men? Or would you make an exception?” Cassian inquired, sitting on the bench so his back faced her and he faced the palace while she looked out at the courtyard.

“Especially you,” she lied. He was always looking at her, of course—but he mostly kept his distance.

He rose to his feet to leave, irritation rolling off him in rippling waves. She almost let him leave but at the last moment, Nesta swallowed her pride and whispered, “Wait.”

Cassian hesitated, the mist pasting the white shirt he wore to his bulky chest. She rather liked seeing him in something other than the menacing armor he wore—he looked like a real man and not a conquering god. She could see how careful he was being—like she was some kind of wild animal and any wrong move would send her fleeing.

He wasn’t totally wrong.

Though she resented that after a week, he’d figured that out. Stop watching me, she wanted to scream. Why was he the only one who seemed to notice her? “About the sword…”

He couldn’t suppress his smile. “You’re not planning to assassinate my king, are you?”

“I don’t think he’s in danger of marrying me,” he replied, catching the creasing frown on Cassian’s face. Was he blind, or just oblivious? Rhysand couldn’t drag his eyes off Feyre long enough to answer one of Nesta’s inane questions, let alone propose marriage. And Nesta couldn’t help but feel a little relief, though it was mingled with a hearty helping of dread. “Will you?”

Nesta didn’t have time to teach Cassian about Northern politics. If Eris wasn’t going to help then Nesta needed a new tactic—and it didn’t involve cutting Graysen’s throat in his sleep should a marriage contract be drafted between them.

She read. Men overthrew governments all the time. How hard could it possibly be? A good number of nobles liked her at court—if she could call more of the far flung families back, Nesta could spend the summer winning their approval and planting the seeds of dissent.

Though…she didn’t know if she could kill her father.

She’d figure it out as she went. For now, not dying in her sleep felt important and it had nothing to do with wanting to see more of Cassian. He was an unwanted, unneeded distraction, besides…and yet…

“Of course,” Cassian agreed, pulling her from her blood-tinged thoughts. “In the morning, just after breakfast.”

Nesta nodded, wondering where they’d even manage to do this. It wasn’t as if they could just train out in the open and she couldn’t—wouldn’t—fling open her bedroom door and let him stroll inside.

“I know a place,” Cassian continued, reading her like a book. Nesta glowered up at him, crossing her arms over her chest for all the good it did. The man killed people as an occupation and she imagined there was nothing about her that scared him.

Which was unfortunate, given how everything about him frightened her.

Why couldn’t he be the prince—stop it.

“Shall I meet you here, then?”

Cassian shrugged his broad shoulders, outlined beneath the shirt he wore. He hadn’t bothered to lace up the neck the way so many other nobles did, nor did he put a tunic over top of it which would have given him the appearance of a well-bred gentleman. No, Cassian seemed to have made peace with the fact that he was who he was and she liked that.

“Wherever you like, Nes,” he replied casually, unaware of how the nickname clanged through her. No one else would have dared. Cassian didn’t look as if he’d even noticed he did it. Did that make her like him more or less? “I’ll find you.”

“Just like that?”

Cassian’s hazel eyes gleamed, the brightest thing in the gloom. “I could find you anywhere, princess. Don’t concern yourself with me.”

“I never do, Cass,” she snapped back, catching that half feral smile spreading across his handsome features.

Cocking his head, head tilted toward the misty sky, Cassian murmured, “My name sounds good in your mouth. I’ll see you tomorrow, princess.”

He left her there wishing he’d called her Nes instead. Wishing he’d stayed. And Nesta knew no matter how she tried to distract herself, she would be counting the minutes until he did find her. Nesta decided to make it a game just so she could prove him wrong which might settle her racing heart down.

He was just a man, and men were always disappointing.

Nesta dragged herself out of bed early enough to avoid Cassian. She went directly to the kitchen for breakfast before marching across the palace to the room that had once belonged to her sister. Nesta liked to read in the window alcove overlooking the sea, which had once been one of Elain’s favorite places. The garden was nothing but bones, but Nesta had screamed and fought to keep Elain’s room intact rather than turned into another bland, uninspired room for the roaming nobility.

Elain wasn’t coming home but that didn’t mean she needed to be erased, either. Everyone wanted to pretend she’d never existed. Nesta wouldn’t let it go. Forgetting or forgiving had never been one of her virtues.

She’d leave that to Feyre.

She didn’t believe Cassian would find her here, and thought even if he did, he wouldn’t dare step inside. And yet…she heard the heavy steps on the stone before she saw him and swore his presence made the walls shake with anticipation.

Perhaps that was just her.

Cassian seemed wildly out of place among the cream and rose and tulle, though he managed not to seem too awkward about it. Looking around, she thought she saw the spark of recognition.

“How did you find me?” she asked, hating the weariness in her voice. Why had she allowed him to?

“You know how,” Cassian replied, his eyes settling on her. “Do you want to go? Or would you like to talk about it?”

Nesta had never spoken of Elain’s death. Feyre had internalized all of it, blaming herself and Nesta had been paralyzed with fear. What did she say? Their father had become a walking shell of his former self, grieving the daughter he’d loved best and the wife he’d genuinely loved. Someone had to take care of things and without Elain, the responsibility fell to Nesta and Feyre.

They’d swallowed their grief and held the court together lest someone try and overthrow their family. They’d become sharp—ruthless—in their pursuit of it. What would Nesta even say? That she missed her?

She didn’t think Elain would be very proud of what had happened in her absence.

“I have no interest in speaking to you,” she hissed, drawing those walls up high. This was her fault—she’d brought him here—and yet Cassian wasn’t supposed to comment on it, either. He was supposed to say nothing, to not care the way everyone else did. Nesta knew, as she stood, that she’d brought him here to prove he wasn’t any better than the rest of the men in her life. He was just as disinterested, just as scheming, just as power hungry as the rest of them.

She could have softened, just a little. Nesta felt the compulsion warring with the urge to hurt him the way she’d been hurt. Maybe Cassian felt it, too, because he waited until her back was facing him to speak.

“My mother was murdered when I was a boy,” he said, clearing his throat so the words were crisp. “I know how it feels to lose someone you love.”

“How?” Nesta heard herself asking, still refusing to look at him.

Cassian blew out a breath. “She had me out of wedlock. My father, he…well. He was a piece of shit, let's leave it at that. In some places in the Spine, that sort of thing still matters and the village she lived in decided it was better to rid themselves of her than to let other women think it was okay…” Cassian choked off, not out of misery, but rage. The sound was enough to turn her head, to look at his anger.

“How old were you?” she asked, hating how badly she wanted to touch his hand.

“Three. Old enough…old enough to remember just enough, but too young to really understand what I lost.”

“What happened to you?”

Cassian shrugged, his jaw clenched. “I grew up in training grounds and war rooms.”

He seemed born for it. It was impossible to imagine Cassian as anything but a warrior, but right then, Nesta wondered who else he could have been. A farmer, perhaps? A poet? A scholar? It seemed distinctly unfair that one person could make a decision and irrevocably alter whole lives without any thought or consideration.

She took a step toward him.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured.

Cassian’s expression softened. “Don’t be. I had my revenge.”

All the air in Nesta’s body left her lungs in a rough exhale. “How?”

“I went back as a man and rounded them all up. I spared the innocent, but everyone else…I let them meet the man they made.”

I let them meet the man they made.

“I’ll never get that,” Nesta said, her despair coloring her words. “He got to march an army into my home and kill my sister, my mother…and life just goes on.”

Cassian regarded her for a moment without words. “You’d need an army if you wanted vengeance, Nes.”

“The military answers to my father,” was her perfunctory response.

“Imagine if they didn’t,” Cassian replied, dropping his voice to the softest whisper.

“I imagine so all the time,” Nesta heard herself admit. Treason. This was treason and she was stupid to confess it to a foreign King's general. All Cassian had to do was turn around and tell Rhysand, who would have an absurd amount of leverage against her. It would have been Nesta’s word against Cassian’s, and if someone was feeling anxious about her rise to the throne, she’d be thrown into the tower until they decided what to do with her.

She could be executed for it.

“I’ve seen your men,” Cassian told her, his words careful. “They couldn’t take on the worst of the southern’s forces.”

She suspected this. Helion had decimated them a decade earlier and rebuilding took time and effort. Their navy was pitiful, their army small and their coffers all but depleted. Eris Vanserra had been her best option and he’d vanished and for all she knew, was having some beautiful, heartfelt reunion with the mother who’d abandoned him.

And Nesta hated Rhysand. Hated him more than was fair, partly because he was arrogant and smug and partly because she wished Rhysand was Cassian when she knew she shouldn’t. How was she supposed to marry a man all the while wishing she could have married his friend? And Nesta wasn’t naive—she didn’t expect love. But there was something particularly cruel about wanting someone you knew you could never have.

And Cassian was someone she could never have.

“Come on,” Cassian murmured, pulling her from her thoughts. “Let’s put a sword in your hand, at least.” And when he went to follow her, fingers brushing her back, Nesta didn’t pull away. Maybe it was foolish.

But she trusted him.

It ought to have been a quiet night, lounging in an uncomfortable bed while listening to the world rage just outside thin windows. Rhys had a book and a carafe of wine he intended to down until he forgot about blue eyes and freckles that looked more like a constellation of stars.

The muffled voices of Azriel and Cassian were immaterial to him—and deeply disinteresting until his bedroom door flung open and Cassian appeared, wet and mudstreaked.

And angry.

“What happened?” Rhys asked, only a little drunk.

“Are you planning to marry Nesta Archeron?” Cassian asked, crossing his arms over the leather armor he wore. Behind him, Azriel shook his head no in warning, eyes wide.

Be careful what you say.

In all the years Rhys had known Cassian, he’d seen him worked up a handful of times. They’d raged in the camp, at the people who’d killed his mother, and at Rhys’s father before they’d eventually overthrown him. And Cassian had taken lovers in between all those moments, declaring he would die a bachelor surrounded by…well. Perhaps it was better not to say.

Cassian looked like he wanted to get his knuckles bloody and if Rhys didn’t know any better, he would have said it was about a woman.

“You know I have no intention of marrying her,” Rhys replied evenly. Rhys was too fixated on her sister, for starters, to even give Nesta the time of day but the little he’d spoken to her reaffirmed that he and Nesta were more likely to kill each other before they enjoyed marital bliss. “Did something happen?”

Cassian clenched his jaw, eyes too dark to be rational. Oh.

“We should leave this place,” Cassian said, his words catching Rhys off guard. “They’re no threat to Helion. I nearly killed one of their boys masquerading as a warrior with a wooden sword today.”

“And if she married Vanserra?” Rhys asked, swinging his legs off the bed casually. How far could he take this before Cassian exploded? And what then? Even if Cassian had developed feelings for Nesta—which didn’t seem possible given what an Ice Queen she was—there was no possibility in which Rhys could put them together. No way he’d give up his general even if it meant Cassian’s happiness.

With Nesta Archeron? No. In Rhys’s mind, he took Feyre back with him, rescuing her from this powder keg masquerading as a kingdom and let Helion absorb all of it before Eris Vanserra could get his talons into it.

Cassian turned, slamming his fist into the door frame which did nothing to the structure but likely wrecked Cassian’s hand. There it was.

“You know better—”

“You don’t know what she’s like,” Cassian snapped, his voice dripping with anger. “You’ve already made up your mind about her.”

“So enlighten me,” Rhys replied, knowing this was folly. Cassian’s lips pressed into a bloodless line, daring Rhys to punish him for disobedience. Oh, they were so fucked. If Cassian did anything with a princess, they were likely to execute him and Rhys didn’t know if he’d be able to intervene.

If Helion called on them for help taking the North, it had always been Rhys’s intention of answering that call. Cassian would have to lead the charge. Would he? Would Cassian let his soldiers sweep into Ellesmere knowing they might accidentally kill Nesta Archeron? Would he take her prisoner, force her to live in Rhys’s court against her will?

Never once since he’d met Cassian had Rhys ever doubted his loyalty.

He did right then.

“Go cool off,” Rhys ordered when Cassian said nothing. He didn’t want to hear how sweet and soft Nesta Archeron could be. Not from Cassian, who ought to know better. Cassian did as he was told, shaking out his hand before storming out, leaving Azriel and Rhys staring at the other.

“Don’t,” Rhys warned.

“I didn’t say anything,” Azriel protested mildly.

“What the fuck am I going to do about this?” Rhys demanded, turning toward a window.

“We could leave,” Azriel suggested, again, without any emotion to his words. They could have been talking about the weather, could have been discussing a nice pair of wollen socks.

“Archeron isn’t going to hand you his youngest daughter.”

Never mind that Feyre hated him. Archeron had made it abundantly clear that Feyre wasn’t available, either hoping for a better alliance with his eldest daughter or some misguided attempt at protecting Feyre.

“And if we left?”

Azriel sighed. “Nolan intends to position his eldest son for the throne. He’s a viable candidate and preferable to Vanserra.” “And if she declines?”

Because she would. Nolan couldn’t give Nesta what she wanted, which was a standing army capable of devastating destruction. He’d table her obvious ambition and if he was smart, he’d make her a mother before the ink dried on their contract.

“A coup,” Azriel replied, plopping into a chair. “And Nolan will likely marry one of the Archeron’s anyway, if only for legitimacy. We should leave.”

But their presence was keeping everything calm for the moment. No one wanted to start a fight Cassian might be able to easily end, nor did they want Rhys to lay claim to their hard work. He couldn’t help but wonder if Nolan wouldn’t pick Feyre, too. Could he stand to see another man marry her?

No.

Rhys had to do something. Had to figure out his own careful alliances before the end of the summer.

Fuck.

He was just as stupid as Cassian.

“I want you to go see Helion. Get a read on what’s going on down there,” Rhys said, wondering if there was any way to salvage the impending storm. How many of his own soldiers could he march into Ellesmere before it began to feel like an invading force? And how did he tell Archeron his nobles might be revolting beneath his nose? Did he?

For now, the answer to that was no.

“I’ll leave in the morning,” Azriel promised. “You need to be careful, though.”

“They can’t hurt me,” Rhys replied with false bravado. Azriel caught him immediately.

“They could. And they would. Keep Cass close, alright? Don’t needle him too hard about Nesta…she’s not that bad, you know. She’s just sad.”

“Why would Cassian want to be around that?” Rhys scoffed, hating the look of sympathy in Azriel’s eyes.

“Two weeks enough?” Azriel questioned.

“Unless you think you need more.”

Azriel only nodded wordlessly, saying nothing as Rhys swept from the room. It was foolish to think Azriel didn’t know exactly who he was looking for or why marrying Nesta felt so offensive to him. Azriel knew everything—it was his job to know, though he liked to pretend he wasn’t a busybody, too.

She wasn’t even trying to hide from him. And this time, when Rhys found her at the top of that tower with the bow and quiver of arrows, he asked, “Can you use that thing?”

“Want to find out?”

She turned, her braid draped over her slim shoulder to look at him. “Yes.”

Maybe she heard the desperation in his voice. Or perhaps he was simply winning her over with his refusal to acknowledge the word no. Feyre swung her legs off the edge of that window and reached for her weapon, her face hidden in shadow. “Could you use it?”

“No,” he admitted. Rhys had never had that kind of aim or the patience required to sit and wait for someone to come within range. He liked to be in the middle of things, sword in hand but even that had been diminished since he’d become king. “You could teach me.”

Feyre considered this for a moment before jerking her thumb over her shoulder. “It’s too wet for today.”

She tried to push past him but Rhys’s body took up the majority of the doorway. Fingers catching around her wrist, he asked, “Who are you waiting for?”

Feyre tried to pull her hand away but Rhys wasn’t done touching her. Tell me you’re in love with another man so I can let you go.

“He’s not coming back…and if he did…” Feyre bit her bottom lip, her expression coming into view of the flickering candle nearby. “If he did, I think I’d kill him.”

Oh.

So this was the man she’d slept with—the man her father decided had irrevocably tainted her. Rhys wanted to see it.

“Call him back to court,” he murmured, catching her by surprise.

“Is this some kind of ego—”

“I would like to watch you kill a man. Is that so unbelievable?” he asked, keeping his usual amusement from his tone. It was too much to bare when she came closer, her free hand appearing just below his neck holding a lethally sharp blade.

“What if the man I kill is you?” she asked.

Rhys’s whole body went taut with excitement. Wrapping his fingers around her own, Rhys forced her to press the blade a little rougher against his skin—until it pierced the fine fabric of his black tunic and he could feel the point directly against his clavicle.

“I’d like that, too.”

“You’re sick. Do you know that?”

“Yes,” he breathed, unable to drag his eyes off her. “You’re the sickness, Feyre.”

“You should stay away from me,” she replied, not pulling away but not pushing any harder, either. Reckless, Rhys didn’t move either. It would have been so easy for her to kill him. They were alone and he was an outsider. If she killed him, she could say he tried to force himself on her.

Cassian and Azriel would have no choice but to flee rather than risk their own executions and without an heir or clear line of succession, his home would be thrown into turmoil while the warring members of his family vied for control.

“I don’t want to stay away from you,” Rhys told her, deciding at the last minute it was better not to add that he couldn’t. That if he couldn’t convince her to love him back, he’d merely steal her away in the middle of the night and insinuate he’d ruined her so she could never return.

Mor would kill him for it, of course, but what was the alternative? Never seeing her again?

Rhys would rather she kill him right then and there.

“That doesn’t sound very smart,” Feyre replied, pulling from his grasp and taking a step back. She sheathed her blade in her boot before elbowing him hard in the ribs to escape him. He didn’t bother with a response—let her have the last word. Rhys was too busy grinning.

Unwilling to admit that the only good idea he’d ever had was her.

#elucien #look whose back back again mbs back tell NO ONE this is a SECRET

66 notes · View notes

separatist-apologist · 11 months ago

Text

A Lost Princess Of Sunlight

And where she really comes from.

My humble offering to @writtenonreceipts for the @acotargiftexchange. Am I releasing fewer chapters because I've realized I need more than 7? YesNO STOP ASKING

Thank you again to @velidewrites for the moodboard and making me seem more put together than I am.

Read On AO3

He was doing it again.

Lucien knew it, rationally. Knew he was making all the same mistakes he’d made with Jesminda—rushing head first into something without thinking about the consequences. Damn them, he decided blithely as he made his way toward his mothers chambers. All Lucien could think about was Elain in the moonlight, her lips on his.

Might as well declare his intentions privately.

Just in case.

It was here Lucien was finally confronted with the sight of his eldest brother, standing at a window just outside the door that would take him to their mothers room. The sight of Eris Vanserra was the only thing that could empty Elain from Lucien’s thoughts. Eris had no right to his home and his presence was unwelcome.

There, hands clasped behind his back, Eris looked every inch the pensive king and Lucien’s fingers curled to fists at the sight. No one could touch Eris but Lucien and Lucien was itching for a violent confrontation. He’d argued passionately that giving Eris free reign of their home would see it laid to rubble for all the good it did.

Eris turned his head, eyes sliding down Lucien’s body as his lip curled with disdain. Lucien still remembered the last time they’d seen each other—he’d been ten, Eris nineteen and Eris had kicked him hard in the spine off a ledge straight into the frothy ocean water below.

No amount of telling his mother had earned Eris any consequences. He was always favored though Lucien was sure Eris didn’t think so because Eris was so spoiled and selfish nothing would ever be good enough for him. Maybe if they all died, then Eris would be satisfied. Until then, he’d continue appearing on occasion and ignoring their mothers letters in between, determined to punish her for the crime of leaving his father.

Lucien used to wonder how Eris rationalized that. How he could look at his mother, covered in bruises from the neck down and so thin his father had once said he didn’t know how she stood, and blame her for leaving. Lucien didn’t wonder now—Eris couldn’t be bothered to sympathize because he was the same terrible bastard as his father.

And Lucien had a score to settle.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Lucien said, praying Eris would hit him with just enough attitude he could justify the punch that was coming, at least to his father. There was no avoiding his mothers tears, her guilt, and the fear that perhaps she should have stayed, if only for Eris’s sake.

“I was invited,” Eris replied, his voice dripping with condemnation. “As much as it displeases you, mother still finds value in me.”

“The only person in the world, I imagine,” Lucien shot back. “I’m surprised you left given the state of your father. Though, I suppose if I had poisoned my father, I wouldn’t want to be around when he finally died.”

“When you require assistance on that front, you’re welcome to shelter in my court,” Eris replied, slick and stupid as ever. Lucien loved his father and was in no hurry to be King, besides. It seemed like it was aging his father at an accelerated rate, not mentioning the utter responsibility Lucien had no interest in.

The insinuation was foul, besides. If Eris was hoping to provoke a reaction, it was working. Lucien’s self control was shredding by the moment.

“Maybe I’ll get lucky and he’ll take you out before—” That was enough. Lucien swung without thinking, howling in rage well before his knuckles ever connected with Eris’s jaw. Eris slammed against the window hard enough to rattle it, blood splattering against his nice jacket. Lucien knew he fucked up the moment his brother refused to hit him back, teeth stained red as he flashed Lucien a sly smile.

His expression crumpled into pain the moment their mother flung open her chamber door, eyes on the pair of them.

Eris shook his head. “If you didn’t want me here, you could have said so,” he spat, eyes on their mother. Russet eyes became glassy with tears, and Lucien could have killed Eris right then for the guilt he was capitalizing on.

“Why would you do this?” his mother asked, turning her gaze to Lucien. “We raised you better than this.”

Eris’s gaze gleamed with triumph. Nothing Lucien could say would fix this moment for his mother. What she wanted was for Lucien to take the high road, to forgive and forget rather than respond to Eris’s goading. And there was no way for Lucien to act as though he’d been forced into hitting Eris—he’d wanted to.

“Someone should have a long time ago,” Lucien hissed instead, surprised by the way both his mother and brother seemed to flinch back from his words.

“Go tell your father you said that,” his mother ordered, her words blunted with ice. Finally, a good idea. Unable to bear the sight of his mothers grief or Eris’s vindication, Lucien turned on his heel and strode away. His father would understand, even if he couldn’t totally absolve Lucien of his violence. There would be a little eye rolling and a promise to talk to Lucien’s mother to smooth things over.

And Lucien could finally tell someone in his family about Elain. If he told his father and his mother, he could tell Elain his parents were just delighted he’d picked someone born and raised in the South so she’d stop wringing her hands over the circumstances of her birth. Lucien needed something positive to happen and being able to track down his lady and inform her his parents were thrilled by the match was the only thing that convinced Lucien to see his father immediately, rather than to wait until his mother forced him to.

His father was lounging in his office, the balcony doors, head tilted toward the warm sunlight. Lucien stepped through the bright room, ignoring the paperwork stacked that Lucien probably ought to know about. He likely ought to know more about state affairs and kept himself intentionally oblivious to get out of taking on more responsibility.

But…maybe…maybe he ought to try, if only to prove he was worth marrying. Jesminda had hated everything to do with the monarchy but did Elain? Lucien realized he didn’t know much about her at all.

It was merely another problem he needed to rectify.

“Father,” Lucien said, forgetting Eris’s blood was still splattered against his face. He hadn’t forgotten the ache in his hand and when both he and his father looked down, Lucien saw his knuckles were cracked and swollen.

“Tell me you were fighting Jurian,” his father ordered, groaning when Lucien set his jaw. “Tell me he deserved it—and your mother doesn’t know.”

“He did deserve it,” Lucien swore vehemently, unable to say the second part.

“You let him crawl under your skin far too easily. What upset your mother?” his father asked with some amusement. Sighing, Lucien set his elbows against the wide lip of the marble balcony and stared out at the sea.

“That someone ought to have hit him long ago.”

His father exhaled a breath. “Ah. That’ll do it.”

“Is it wrong to wish Beron had—”

“Yes, it is. Your mother desperately wished to bring Eris with her. In another life, under different circumstances, you two might have loved each other. You shouldn’t wish that, though, no matter how much you loathe him. Keep your distance if you can’t be civil.”

“Fine,” Lucien agreed through gritted teeth, “I can do that. I didn’t come to talk about Eris. I’ve come to tell you about a woman.”

His father turned, golden eyes bright with delight. “So your mother was right, just as I knew she was. Tell me who so I can start wooing her father.”

“Lady Elain Koschington,” Lucien said, surprised when his father took a step backward.

“Are you certain?”

“Well…there’s time…but I’ve made my intentions toward her plain—”

“How so?”

“Just courting, nothing untoward!” Lucien assured his father, slightly embarrassed.

“There’s time to change your mind,” his father declared, catching Lucien off-guard. Surely he was happy that Lucien had picked a woman rather than pining after Jesminda and sleeping his way through the city.

“I’m not going to change my mind,” Lucien said, uncertain if that was true. “What is the problem with Lady Elain?”

“She is hardly a lady,” his father replied.

Lucien swallowed. He didn’t care—he swore he didn’t. If she’d been with another man, that was fine. Maybe he was jealous, but he’d certainly been no saint either. “I don’t care—”

“No. You may not court Lady Elain—”

“Mother said any Southern born lady—”

“And she was not born within our border—”

“She is a citizen of our crown and you are merely quibbling over semantics!” Lucien exploded, angrier than he’d ever been with his father.

“I forbid it,” his father said, facing Lucien with all the wrath of a king. “And if you test me, I will have her sent so far from your reach it would take you lifetimes to find her.”

“Why?”

“Are you asking as a prince? Or my son about to disobey me?”

Lucien hung on a knife’s edge. If he demanded the truth, he would be bound by it. Lucien would be forced to put duty over his feelings, something he’d never been good at. And if he asked as his fathers son, Elain would be sent away. Which was worse, he wondered? Never seeing her again, or seeing her while knowing he couldn’t have her?

“The truth, as both your son and the prince.”

“Elain is an Archeron, and a political prisoner of my court.”

Lucien blinked. The heat had finally overwhelmed him and he was hallucinating.

“A fisherman scooped her out of the sea when she was a girl and kept her separated from her sisters. It was my original intention to ransom her back…but she had no memory of her life in the north and I saw an opportunity to keep her troublesome family in line. She hasn’t be mistreated, but when we returned her sisters under the treaty, we kept Elain as insurance for when her father inevitably tried another invasion.”

Lucien felt like gagging. “You…”

“To marry her would start a war. You cannot court Elain, nor can you marry her. No man can—she is off limits.”

“And what happens when she realizes she is unmarriageable? Have you seen her?”

“She will think there is some quality of hers that men find unappealing and adjust to life as a spinster, like many women do without complaint or regret.”

“Does mother know about this?”

“Yes.”

Lucien felt his world crumbling. In his mind, his family was above reproach and morally righteous. Everything they’d done had been in service to the safety of their home and anything said to the contrary was merely lies meant to discredit his fathers rule. The idea that his father was calculating enough to use a little girl as a political pawn—and would steal her entire life on the bet her father might one day try and invade—was too much for Lucien to process.

And Arina—oh, Arina. She was trying to find the village Elain had come from. How long before she put it together? Lucien opened his mouth to warn his father before snapping it closed again.

Why?

What would happen to Arina? And Elain? Hell, what would happen to him? Rubbing his eyes, Lucien said, “How could you?”

“You will do just as bad—worse, even, if needs become must. That is our life. One of duty, not romance.”

Lucien scoffed, unwilling to say what he was thinking. Had it been duty when his own father had nearly started a war over his mother? He could see his father daring him to say so and knew it would not end well for him if he did. “Swear you’ll stay away from her.”

Fingers crossed behind his back like he was a child, Lucien looked his father dead in the eyes and lied. “I swear.”

Lucien had no intention of staying away from Elain. No. A new plan was forming in his mind—one that was just as idiotic as his fathers original plan to dangle her like meat over her fathers head. As if that wasn’t justification for war? As far as Lucien could see, there was no outcome that avoided it other than Elain simply vanishing into the ether, never to be seen again.

At least if she was his wife, Lucien could argue they were now allies, not enemies.

Fool. He was an utter, stupid fool. It was Jesminda all over again. One kiss and Lucien was ready to make her his wife, consequences be damned.

And yet as he walked out of his fathers study, Lucien felt confident.

Certain of his decision.

“What happened to your face?”

Beautiful Eris Vanserra trudged up to the library where he had no right to be, his left eye brutally swollen, nose blooded and shirt stained. Arina rose from her spot at her desk, forgetting she wasn’t supposed to touch him again—a promise she’d made to herself after he’d kissed her—to reach for his face. Dull, amber eyes peered back at her, uncertain of what was about to happen.

“Who did this to you?”

“Don’t make your first kill on my behalf,” he said with none of his usual fire.

“Sit down,” she said, careful to keep her own voice soft. Arina had no intention of killing anyone ever, though she might have words with the offender. “What happened?”

“Your lovely prince’s fist happened.”

Oh.

“What did you say to him?” she asked, making her way toward a pitcher of water. It would have to do for now—just to clean him up. After, she could cajole him into seeing a healer, if only to make sure he hadn’t broken his nose.

“You assume it was my fault? Cruel.”

“I think I know you well enough to know you can’t help yourself,” Arina murmured, pulling up the hem of her dress to soak it so she could dab at his face. Eris watched, tracking her every move the moment the fabric exposed her thigh. Of course that would interest him.

He was a rogue—a villain, really. Arina knew exactly what Eris wanted—a distraction during his time here only so he could forget her the moment he left—and she was determined not to give it to him.

Which was difficult given she wanted to. Arina was no lady, even if technically, by birth, she could have been. Should have been, truly. Her father had ruined himself long before Arina had come up but Helion could have salvaged her reputation much like he’d salvaged her fathers. Arina could have asked for a household of her own—but she wanted peace and quiet and to be freed of the expectation that a man she hated would get to decide her future.

But perhaps there was some wisdom to it, given she’d been ready to throw her lot in with Eris Vanserra, damn the consequences. She’d half convinced herself the time spent with him would be worth it, besides. How many women could say they’d been with a king? A lot, probably, given their reputation for infidelity. Still.

“I wanted to piss him off,” Eris admitted, his gaze uncharacteristically soft. “I thought it would bring me some peace.”

“And did it?”

Eris slid a hand up her bare leg, halting just above her knee. “No.”

Pretending she hadn’t notice how warm his fingers were, Arina began wiping at the blood though it was ruining the pink of her dress. “Then maybe you ought to employ a different tactic.”

“A blade, then?”

“How about a conversation?” she suggested, arching her brow. “An honest conversation.”

“I’d rather he stabbed me,” Eris grumbled, tilting his chin ever so slightly. It looked as though he was giving her access, permission, even, for a kiss. That path only ended in destruction and she knew it. If Eris ever learned she was half as attracted to him as she truly was, he’d never leave her be. The only thing saving Arina was his belief she was mostly ambivalent about him and required persuasion.

In truth, she required no persuasion at all. Eris was beautiful—easily the most beautiful man she’d ever laid eyes on—and ever since he’d kissed her, she’d thought of nothing else. She couldn’t be the one to kiss him again—to kiss him ever. If nothing else, Arina wouldn’t give Eris the satisfaction of one day breaking her heart.

“Would it be so terrible if he liked you?”

Eris considered this for a moment, eyes glazing over which made wiping the blood from his face far easier. Copper salt mingled with woodsmoke and whiskey which wasn’t entirely unpleasant. And she had to admit, there was something particularly inviting about the sight of Eris covered in blood, though she would rather see him covered in someone else's rather than his own.

“Yes, I think it would be,” Eris finally murmured.

“Why?”

His eyes grew sharp and cold. “Prying for secrets, are you?”

She shrugged. “I might give you something in return.”

Straightening his spine, Eris asked, “Something I want?”

“Within reason, I suppose. I’m not taking my clothes off for you.”

The grip on her leg tightened as if to say, we’ll see about that. “If I liked Lucien…if I liked your self-righteous king, even…” Eris drew in a sharp breath before rushing out the words, “it would mean she was right to leave us.”

Arina’s fingers slid over his cheek without meaning to, wanting to comfort him before she even considered why she’d want that. Eris didn’t seem like a man with deep feelings or thoughts beyond what might best service him.

“I don’t think she left because of you,” Arina murmured, wondering if he considered himself part of the problem. Eris raised his brows, his expression betraying how little he believed her. However, his next words held none of the vulnerability as the ones that had come before.

“You promised a kiss.”

“I promised to give you something you wanted—”

“That’s what I want,” he said, his free hand gripping her waist to pull her into his lap. Before she could protest, Eris had his mouth against her own and she found that her fingers betrayed her, sliding through his hair before she ever thought about it.

He tasted like warm sunlight somehow. It was a mistake, one she knew she’d come to regret but right then, Arina told herself kissing him couldn’t hurt her. Couldn’t hurt anything, really. She knew what this was—nothing at all. Passing attraction, a distraction that they’d both tire of if they ever had to spend any significant amount of time together.

Besides, he didn’t know anything about her. To him, she was simply little more than a servant, a peasant that had been elevated just enough to be given importance, but without the family name or wealth that would make her a viable candidate for courting. Safe to dally with because no one would ever expect him to make good on any promises he made to her. Helion wouldn’t demand Eris marry her if Arina complained and so Eris could bother her, could slide his hand up her dress, could accost her with his mouth.

He’d go home and pick a suitable woman and forget her.

And she swore that was her preference.

It made it easier to kiss him without fear. I’m no one to him.

Though right then, she certainly felt like someone. His mouth was warm, his hands soft and Arina wanted. Wanted this unattainable, emotionally disturbed man and the mess he was almost certainly dragging behind him. He’d destroy her before she ever managed to peel back that first layer, leaving her in bloodied ruins as he sauntered off, divorcing her from his memory while she thought of nothing else.

“I love this,” he whispered, teeth nipping along her bottom lip as he fisted her thick, long hair. “All of it.”

“Love it less,” she heard herself responding, her own heart thudding in her chest. “It’s not yours to keep.”

Chuckling, Eris bit harder. “You won’t come to my bed?”

“I wouldn’t go to dinner with you,” she lied. Arina would have gone a great number of places with him, though it was far easier to lie to herself and pretend she wouldn’t. That this was all nothing and he was meaningless to her.

“You had breakfast with me,” he reminded her, as if Arina could ever forget.

She let him kiss her again, cognizant of the hand creeping toward her thigh. Frustration was building in her chest—both because she wanted him and because he so casually believed she was his for the taking, if he wanted her.

“I have breakfast with many people—your brother, for instance, most mornings.”

That soured Eris’s mood. That bruised, blackened eye met hers and she found it was filled with loathing.

Twist the knife, she ordered, holding herself on his lap like she was so utterly careless. Arina cared, far more than she should. Better to stop this now. “I’d have dinner with him, too.”

“Why not throw yourself at his feet, too?” Eris snapped, rising so sharply Arina all but fell to the floor in a graceless heap. “Or is that reserved just for me?”

That was better, she decided. Better for him to loathe her than to want her—or worse. “Your brother is nice to me.”

“Oh, is that it? He thanks you for putting a knife to his throat?”

“He’d never give me cause to do so,” she bit back as she wiped her palms on her dress. “Your brother is a gentleman.”

“Yes, perfect little Lucien,” Eris snarled in response, advancing on her. “And yet here you are. Kissing me.”

He waited for a comeback, some response that would explain this all away. What was she supposed to say? That if she lined Lucien and Eris up, there was no comparison? That she’d have picked Eris with her eyes closed, hands tied behind her back and that fact scared her? “At least Lucien likes me,” she whispers, certain that she was right about this. Eris was attracted to her, of that Arina was positive, but she thought the fact rankled him. He didn’t want to—and hoped to exorcize her from his system at the very first opportunity.

His eyes flashed. “Who says I don’t like you?”

“Do you like me, Eris?” she challenged as he reached for her face to draw her closer. What was happening? They were supposed to be fighting and yet the tension in the air had shifted again and she knew she was going to kiss him.

“I like you right now,” he murmured, mouth brushing her own. “I like you enough to come looking for you.”

“You’re just bored,” she whispered, one hand half-heartedly pushing against his chest.

“Surely there are simpler ways to get a woman naked if I was truly that bored,” he disagreed, nipping softly at that bruised lip of hers. “Women who would pay me a compliment, even, without me having to beg.”

“Is that what you want?”

“Among other things,” he managed, kissing her softly. “Say something nice to me, Arina.”

“You first,” she replied, grateful for another kiss that silenced them both. She didn’t want to hear him say anything nice to her, knowing full well she’d turn those words over in her mind until she’d made them more romantic than they were. Eris didn’t push it, either, content to pull her back to his chair and into his lap and kiss her until they were both breathless.

Arina was careful when she climbed out of his lap, not daring to touch anything but his hands for fear he’d take it as an invitation. Eris stood, adjusting his clothes as if that would distract from his ruby red mouth and his mussed hair. Arina walked around her desk, bracing herself against the wood as she waited for Eris to leave.

“You’re too good for Lucien, you know,” he murmured, halting with his hand on the door handle. Without looking back, he added, “Probably myself, too.” And then he was gone.

She’d been right about that compliment—for the rest of the night, Arina turned it over and over in her mind, trying to make meaning of it until she found the words romantic.

Fool.

She was an utter fool.

“Move your foot just a little,” Cassian murmured, stepping toward Nesta’s slim thigh before he remembered he wasn’t allowed to touch her. It was becoming far too easy to forget. She had been alone with Rhys last night, taking a turn around that dead garden or something equally horrible. Cassian had been agitated the entire time and Rhys’s silent return only to stalk into his bedroom did little to improve Cassian’s mood.

What had happened? And which was worse? A night that had gone so well Rhys needed to lock himself behind a closed door in order to deal with it, or so terrible he’d had to hide his rage? Cassian didn’t want to think about his brother treating Nesta badly—nor did he want to imagine Rhys realizing how wonderful Nesta was, either.

Cassian had woken to a dream that Nesta was his queen and he was made to bow before her, unable to look either her or Rhys in the eyes. As if the alternative—a world in which she was ever his—existed at all. That much was clear given he and Nesta were hidden in her dead sister's bedroom while he taught her the finer points of self-defense…and it was one in the morning.

“Do you sleep?” Cassian dared to ask as Nesta looked down at her booted feet, adjusting them just like he told her to. She had a dancer's stance, her movements lithe and graceful even if she was still a little clumsy with a blade. Give her time and Nesta would be lethal, a shadow much like Azriel if she wanted to be.

What would Rhys say when he learned that Cassian was teaching Nesta to potentially kill Rhys in his sleep should they ever end up married?

“No,” Nesta replied, though she looked like she should. Cassian had no business trying to put her to bed which was enough to focus him. “You train Rhysand’s military, don’t you?”

“I do,” he replied carefully, well aware of why Nesta wanted to know. There was nothing Cassian would have liked more than to unseat her father and those prickish nobles always sneering at him and seeing Nesta sit on that gleaming throne. It was another lurid fantasy best left to the dark of night when he was alone and no one was around to witness him.

“Our general isn’t so…”

Handsome? Virile? Single?

“Young,” she finished, looking up at him. “How many battles have you won?”

Her eyes lingered on his neck and that old wound he was both hoping she did and didn’t ask him about. He could paint it heroically enough—after all, he’d lived, hadn’t he? Barely, but that was a story for another day, another time.

“Enough,” he said, gesturing for her to try and stab him. “I don’t have all night, princess. Some of us need sleep in order to maintain our good looks.”

“Who told you that you were good looking?” she replied with a gleam in her eye.

“Are you implying they lied to me?” Cassian shot back with faux hurt.

“I’m not implying it. I’m stating it outright.”

Cassian laughed as Nesta lunged, her sharp blade slicing through the thin material of his shirt and cutting through his skin. It was a shallow wound hardly worth the loud gasp that escaped her and yet…

“Oh,” he breathed, eyes not on the blood now soaking his clothing but at the woman mere inches in front of him. “You stabbed me.”

“I’m so sorry,” Nesta said, tugging at his shirt to get a better look. Cassian knew he was a bastard because it barely stung. It was hardly worth paying attention to and had it been Azriel or Rhys, he would have kept sparring, unconcerned. Instead, Cassian removed the offending garment so the princess could fuss over him a little.

“It’s nothing,” Cassian told her honestly, dropping into a chair they’d pushed to the side while Nesta fretted, looking for something to dress the cut. “I doubt it’ll even scar. Besides—you got me. That’s something, Nes.”

She turned, wisps of hair brushing against her cheek and gods she was so beautiful.

“I did, didn’t I?” she replied, a genuine smile curving over her lips. What would happen, he wondered, if he just kissed her?

Nesta was still holding that bloodied dagger in her hand which was enough to temper Cassian’s thoughts. He didn’t need to teach her to stab, after all—that was intuitive. Still, Nesta seemed like the kind of woman who ought to have been born wielding a weapon and he suspected with a little more practice, she’d be a born natural.

And then what? Would Rhys want to help her wrest control of her kingdom from the men who’d long ruled it? Cassian was certain he didn’t, that he was only here to prevent their long-standing ally Helion from another war.

It was a secret he was keeping from her.

He didn’t owe Nesta the truth. After all, he was no one to her. Just some man she’d tricked into helping her. Cassian imagined Nesta did this every day with any number of men and he was merely the latest one. And yet with each passing day, guilt gnawed at him because she genuinely believed they were there to help her.

And they weren’t. Rhys and Azriel were more likely to destabilize things entirely than they were to offer her any real assistance. Maybe Rhys would offer her an out by making her his wife—but maybe he wouldn’t. Cassian would be the villain because his job was to destroy their military and leave the north in tattered ruins.

Nesta came closer, a little ripped piece of cloth in her hand. Cassian caught her wrist, wanting so badly to touch her when he knew he didn’t have the right. “Don’t worry about me,” he told her, holding her gaze. “I’ll have forgotten about this in the morning.”

Nesta came closer still, until she was standing between his parted legs. “You’ll forget me?”

“That’s not what I said,” Cassian heard himself reply. He didn’t feel in control right then, but like a spectator watching another man who was far calmer and more collected speak to the woman of his dreams. “I don’t think it’s possible to forget you, Nesta Archeron.”

It was that other man, still holding her wrist, that turned her palm up and pressed a kiss against her skin. A man who knew how to court a woman like Nesta—who knew what he was doing at all, even. Not Cassian, who felt as though he was screaming with delight and fear, pressed against his own eyes to watch. She was going to shove him, would scream for her guards and he’d be arrested. Rhys would ask him if it was worth it and Cassian would say—well, Cassian would say it had been worth it. Because it had.

Nesta didn’t do any of those things. Shuddering, she took a careful step backward with an audible swallow. “Is it hard? Killing another person?”

Was that what she was thinking? Like cold water had been poured over his head, Cassian felt his desire cool. It was with great reluctance that he dropped her hand, sighing softly. “I can’t speak for everyone. Killing is personal, even when it's not.”

“Do you think I could?”

Holding her gaze, Cassian thought Nesta could do anything with sheer will alone. He understood what she was asking, though: did he think she could follow through? Did Cassian think Nesta was capable of taking a life? Yeah, Cassian thought Nesta could kill as well as the best of them—maybe better.

“Yeah, Nes, I think you could.”

Nodding her head, a soft smile spread across her lips. “I have a list.”

Cassian had never wanted anyone more than he wanted her right then. “Oh? Where do I fall on it?”

“You’re so full of yourself,” she said, smothering a smile. “Why would you think you rank at all?”

“Hope, I suppose,” Cassian replied with a grin.

“You hope I’d kill you?” she asked, eyes wide with a mixture of what he thought was delight and surprise.

“Anything to feel your hands on my skin,” Cassian responded before he could think about it. Nesta sucked in a soft breath and he knew he’d taken it too far. He shouldn’t have said that. Heart hammering, Cassian turned slowly to look at her, waiting for her to order him out.

“That’s pathetic,” she said, her voice strangely breathless. “Where is your dignity, General?”

Had he ever been so aroused in his life? Cassian was hard pressed to think of a time as Nesta made her way toward him, hips swaying beneath her dress. She was out of bounds, and even though Rhys said he had no intention of courting her, she did technically belong to his brother. What would happen if Rhys learned of this?

Would he be jealous?

Angry?

“I suspect you hold that, along with everything else, princess,” Cassian replied, deciding he was going to see this through to whatever conclusion. Nesta closed the gap between them, her body close enough that her breasts all but touched his chest. Cassian wanted to kiss her and swore he wasn’t going to right until she tilted her chin upward with that hint of defiance he liked so much.

Was that what this was? Just a princess defying her father until she couldn’t? Or did Nesta feel the same attraction Cassian felt, too?

Reaching for her cheek, Cassian held it in his hand, thumb sweeping against soft skin. Oh, he was in such trouble and yet he knew if he hesitated, Nesta would never give him another opportunity. He might lack dignity but Nesta held her pride so tightly he suspected she wrapped it around her body like a second skin.

She wasn’t going to beg him. Cassian would have, though.

Still, Cassian didn’t know just how true those thoughts were until his mouth brushed hers. Nesta smelled sweet, like something sugary baked on the streets of Velaris. If he’d smelled it while walking by, Cassian would have ducked in for a taste, unable to help himself. He felt the same right then, kissing her with a sharp inhale of air.

It was a miracle that Nesta kissed him back, her fingers gripping the tops of his arms to hold him steady. Cassian felt dazed, drunk on his success though he had no idea how he’d managed to convince her to kiss him in the first place. All he knew was he wanted more and would commit an unknown, unnamed number of atrocities to kiss her again.

He ought to have known she was unpracticed—that Nesta would need more care than he was used to. Cassian was so lost in the moment he didn’t think about winding an arm around her body to pull her flush against him. Nesta gasped, her little hands pressed to his chest as she tried to back away.

“I—Sorry,” he breathed, eyes on her as she put a healthy amount of space between them. Nesta’s fingers touched her lips, eyes glassy and far away.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” she whispered, her words a knife to his heart. “I…that was a mistake.”

“Don’t do that,” Cassian half pleaded, half growled. “You know it wasn’t a mistake.”

Her spine straightened. “It was. You’re—” she swallowed the words she was about to say, eyes flashing a warning. If Cassian had been smarter, he’d have let them die.

But Cassian had never been accused of intelligence. “I’m what, Nes?”

“You’re no one at all,” she replied lightly, eyes sliding toward the door. “And I’m a princess. This never happened. Forget it like I already have.”

“You’re a liar, Nesta Archeron,” Cassian called, swallowing his anger in favor of keeping his tone light. She turned, eyes flashing.

“You can’t talk to me like that,” she snapped.

“Just did,” he replied, crossing his arms over his chest. “Throw me in prison if I offend you.”

“You will keep your distance or—”

“Or what?” Cassian murmured, taking a casual step toward her. They both knew she couldn’t—Nesta wanted to learn to use a blade and could ask no one but him. Either she abandoned her plans or she sought him out. Either way, Cassian held all the cards. They stared the other down, searching for some weakness to advance their position. It was Nesta who turned again, chin raised with a haughty arrogance that made his blood race.

“Or nothing, Cassian. This never happened.”

“We’ll see, Nes!” he hissed after her retreating back.

Cassian didn’t give up that easily. Not when he wanted something.

And Cassian had never wanted anything or anyone half as much as he wanted Nesta.

Feyre’s heart thudded in her throat as she raced through the palace, skirts held in one hand, feet slipping against the smooth stones. You’re dreaming, you’re dreaming, you’re dreaming— It wasn’t a dream. Tamlin was standing in the grand hall, head bowed low as her father and Lord Nolan spoke to him, their words too soft to be overheard by the hiding Feyre. What could her father have possibly needed from Tamlin to call him back?

Feyre’s hands were numb, cold despite the roaring fire that warmed the room. The only thing that had ever given Feyre peace was the knowledge that Tamlin was not coming home. He’d never have a chance to apologize for what he’d done, which meant she’d never cave and forgive him like she knew she would.

Seeing him there, though, broad shouldered and beautiful, softened some of her resolve. He’d struck her but it had been an accident—she’d merely been in his way and he hadn’t intended to hurt her. He’d meant to strike the wall, to knock over his desk and its contents. She’d rushed forward and he’d lashed out and Feyre was far softer and more breakable than stone and wood. It was the kind of bruise that couldn’t be explained away, couldn’t be hidden.

Tamlin had offered a half-hearted apology, his kisses turning into reassurance sex that left Feyre feeling empty and hollow in the aftermath. She hadn’t protested when her father ordered Tamlin away and Tamlin hadn’t put up a fight. He’d merely packed his things, leaving Feyre with a ruined reputation and a broken heart.

Feyre waited until there was a lull in the conversation to step into the room. It was strangely empty, devoid of the usual advisors and courtiers that made the grand hall seem so small. Now it was cavernous, a death march as Feyre made her way toward her father, desperate not to look at Tamlin at all.

She’d been summoned, after all. That was how she’d known—a nervous servant had told her to meet her father and when Feyre pressed, they’d whispered of Lord Tamlin’s return. Feyre felt her stomach sinking lower and lower as Nolan stared her down, his curiosity warring with some other emotion. Was it irritation, perhaps? There was no joy on that face.

“Majesty,” Nolan murmured when Feyre approached, bowing low not to her, but her father as he excused himself. Feyre wanted to grab his arm and beg him to stay though she didn’t dare. Lord Nolan would never intentionally help her—he cared only about his own standing, his own wealth, his own power. She was merely a pawn in whatever game he played to get his son on the throne.

She was close enough to Tamlin she could smell the soft, masculine scent wafting from his form. Could have touched the fingers at his side if she’d wanted to—and some pathetic part of her did. Feyre looked at her father, too afraid to look at Tamlin.

“Feyre,” her father began, rising from his chair to descend the steps of the raised dais so they could be at eye level. “How did you sleep?”

“I—” Was that really what he wanted to know? “I slept well.”

Her father nodded, reaching out a hand to brush her cheek. The same cheek Tamlin’s bruise had once adorned, faded with time. “I’ve called Lord Tamlin back to court for a purpose, Feyre. Before he left, he offered—”

“Please,” she whispered, swallowing hard.

“Feyre,” Tamlin tried but Feyre stumbled back a step, holding up a hand as she finally looked at him. He was even more beautiful than she remembered, so achingly handsome it made her want to go to him. “What happened between us…you have to know how sorry I am. I always—it was always my intention to ask you—I left and the rumors—”

“No,” she breathed, taking another step back. “You can’t be serious.”

“Think on it,” her father urged with kindness in his voice. Was she allowed to decide for herself, or was this an order dressed up like a choice? Feyre turned without another word, storming from the hall before she could do or say something she’d regret. She wasn’t marrying Tamlin, couldn’t bring herself to marry a man who at best was so angry he occasionally lost control of himself and at worst had meant to hit her and only felt sorry because he’d been caught. More than that, though, Feyre wasn’t going to do anything that made Lord Nolan happy. This was his doing and she knew it, some game he was playing in which Feyre was the unwitting pawn. If she slowed down, she likely could have figured it out. She could have gone to Nesta, who likely knew exactly what was happening and was three moves ahead.

Instead, Feyre went outside into the mist, trying to control her breathing.

“There you are. I’ve been looking for you,” a voice murmured from the fog. Feyre started as Rhysand appeared, his usually perfect hair plastered against his forehead. Gone was the elegant king, replaced with someone who looked like any regular man. A regular man with a perfect face, but a regular man all the same.

Feyre found herself at a loss for words as she looked up at him, remembering his hands on her body in the hot spring and the way his eyes had been on her mouth the entire time she talked. He was here courting Nesta, she reminded herself. Rhys was merely amusing himself with the daughter he’d heard was easier to get undressed, which made him a prick, not someone to fantasize about.

“Walk with me?” he asked, offering Feyre his arm. She took it without thinking, fingers sliding over the velvety soft black fabric.

“Is something wrong?” Feyre dared to ask, noting how tight Rhysand’s jaw seemed to be.

“I need some quiet,” he replied, closing his eyes for a moment as he led her from the sparse, gray courtyard and into the city proper.

“Then why bring me?”

“I always want to talk to you,” he replied without his usual mockery.

“Did something happen?” Feyre heard herself asking—like she cared. Maybe she just wanted a distraction from her own problems but…Rhysand never seemed like the kind of man who was bothered by anything.

“Your courts politics frustrate me,” he admitted, running a hand through his wet hair.

“Yours are better?”

He shrugged, some of that charm seeping back into his expression. “Would you like to find out, darling?”

Wrenching her hand from his arm, Feyre elbowed him in the ribs. Rhysand smiled, ducking his head as if she’d given him a compliment. “Don’t be gross.”

Rhysand only grinned, the sight of which made her blood warm. “What is Velaris like?” she heard herself asking after a moment of comfortable silence. “I hear it’s cold.”

“You should visit,” he began, eyes shining. “There is nowhere in the world like Velaris. We have seasons—it’s not just snow and ice all year round. We also host some of the best artists on the continent…and I hear you like to paint.”

Feyre’s throat constricted. “Who told you that?”

“I’m not divulging my sources,” Rhysand replied, those once starry, shining eyes dulling as he drank in the capital city. It was dreary, she supposed, though the fog and rain did little to help. People didn’t want to be out if they didn’t have to be, and if they did, they were bundled in wool cloaks to keep them from getting wet. She doubted his own perfect home was devoid of mud and animal droppings and the sounds of people shouting over each other as they traded for goods.

“Why are you talking about me?”

“I like talking about you,” Rhysand replied with a smoothness that irked her. “I want to know everything there is to know about you.”

“Why? Shouldn’t you be getting to know my sister?” Feyre demanded, though something oily slid through her at the mention of Nesta. Rhysand, too, shifted, his body more rigid, his face stonier. He didn’t want Nesta and Feyre wasn’t stupid enough to pretend he wanted neither of them. He’d come looking at the eldest daughter to consolidate his power but now he was looking at her.

Did her father know?

Oh gods…did Nolan know? Was that why Tamlin was back? Nolan knew Rhysand had no interest in Nesta and hoped to keep all foreign interest out of their court by dangling Tamlin over Feyre’s head. Had he thought she’d jump at the prospect, or did he merely bank on her father wanting to silence the rumors swirling around Feyre and her virginity?

“Can’t I get to know you?” Rhysand asked, his voice smooth and low.

Feyre halted in her tracks. “Are you asking to court me?”

Rhysand merely grinned. “That depends on the answer you give me.”

Feyre’s mind raced. Nesta wanted Rhysand’s army for retribution on the south but Rhysand didn’t want Nesta. If Feyre told him unequivocally no, he’d likely leave sooner than he said he would and Feyre would be pushed into a marriage with Tamlin. Did she want that? Part of her did, but the other part—the part that still remembered the fear, the pain, and the heartbreak—wanted to never see him again. To bury one of her arrows in his throat and watch him suffer the way she had.

That didn’t mean she wanted Rhysand, though. He’d owe Nesta through an alliance between their homes, but…he’d take her away from her sister. And that felt intolerable to Feyre. The choices were unfair, her position a misery. Did she want Rhysand to court her, though, was the question?

Taking a breath, Feyre said, “Fine.”

“You’re so romantic,” Rhysand teased, his cheeks warming. “You can say no, darling. My ego can withstand rejection.”

Feyre believed him, too. Something about him—the casual way he talked, the friendly demeanor his warriors employed around him, and the way he looked at her made Feyre think he was being honest. If she officially declined, she suspected Rhysand would withdraw entirely out of respect. Even if she didn’t know what she wanted, she knew she didn’t want him to leave just yet.

“Can we keep this between us for the moment?” she heard herself asking, wringing her hands nervously in front of her body. “Just until…”

He raised his brows. “Until the summer is over?”

“Yeah,” she breathed with relief. That way, at least, she didn’t mess things up for Nesta and whatever clandestine things she was planning and almost certainly not telling Feyre about and see Tamlin sent back to the countryside, ideally forever. And if she ended up like Rhysand, well…that wasn’t a bad thing, was it?

“Whatever it takes,” Rhysand murmured, staring down at her with the kind of affection that made her stomach twist in knots. She’d seen that look on a man's face before and it hadn’t ended well. It always started sweet but how long until Rhysand erupted and hurt her? After all, much like Tamlin, he was accustomed to getting what he wanted and Feyre was famously difficult—or, that's what people said about her, anyway. What did he even want, she wondered? Obedience? An alliance? Something else she hadn’t considered.

“I do have one request from you, since we’re negotiating terms,” Rhysand continued, flexing his fingers at his side.

Here we go, she thought. He was going to ask her to get in his bed since she was no longer a virgin, and—

“I’d like you to call me Rhys.”

Feyre blinked. “What?”

“Only my enemies call me Rhysand,” he informed her, eyes bright again. “But my friends call me Rhys.”

“Is that what we are? Friends?”

“I hope so,” he replied, and for some reason, Feyre believed him.

She took a breath. “Alright then, Rhys.”

He smiled. “That’s my girl.”

#elucien #sorry this takes forever to write #i dont anticipate that changing lmao

38 notes · View notes